


hardly golden

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pre-Series, Season/Series 01, Selectively Mute Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7592344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hands span Dean’s ribs and he counts, a dozen per side. Dean’s ass presses back against the blood-strain of his dick and Sam turns his head up to the water-logged ceiling on a blink.</p>
<p>Sam holds his breath for the sound, sometimes.</p>
<p>After the fire that killed his mother and turned his father, Dean didn't ever quite get his voice back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hardly golden

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this thing back in like, February, immediately read it and couldn't stand it, had two LOVELY people (pathossam and my darling Silver) read over it, CONTINUED to loathe it, and now, decided to just throw it out here and see what you guys think. I'm going through writer's slump at the moment (it kills), so here's this potentially lackluster foray back into the world.

_ O hungry child; why are you world-weary? _

_ where is the earth that housed  _

_ and formed you whole _

_ have you left it loose  _

_ for your descent _

_ -anonymous _

 

Dean smiles often. 

They're not the same ones he provides Sam; they're soft, slow animals and Sam grins to see them. 

They worked hard on giving those when there’s nothing available, and it shows. 

Dean plays with his straw wrappers in the diner and one hits Sam square in the nose. 

Dean opens his mouth on a laugh and it comes out chainsmoke raspy but Sam clasps his hands together tight underneath cheap linoleum and beams. 

“Gonna die of a heart attack at twenty-six,” Sam states and Dean ducks his head sheepishly, eyes hooded. 

“You don't give a shit, do you?” Sam teases, because he can. Dean’s coming off of a low streak, and he can’t see Sam trembling; there’s a fine line to drawing Dean home and shouldering him back into no-man’s land.

“Outlive you, bastard,” Dean mutters, and Sam can’t help the way his knee clips the underside of the table.

Dean raises his brow at the noise, and Sam could cry because Dean doesn’t flinch the way he expects. 

Dean’s boot brushes against Sam’s ankle underneath the table and Sam takes it for the reassurance it is. 

Their waitress sidles up to take their order; just over five feet-brunette. She tucks her hair behind one ear and Sam watches the slow-crawl blush that covers her cheeks.

Sam leans back on his side of the booth and watches as Dean flips his head up to grin widely into her face. 

Sam’s legs are too long for this table.

“What’ll y’all be having today?” she asks, number two pencil and notepad; this is the fifties.

“I’ll have the Caesar salad, dressing on the side,” Sam says, and then he looks over at Dean; brown line of Dean’s neck as he exposes all of his teeth.

“He’ll have your Charbroiled Cindy Crawford Surprise,” Sam says hesitantly, did he read the menu correctly?

He tries to catch Dean’s eye; even though they already talked about this; Sam’s gotta make sure Dean hasn’t changed his mind in the interim.

Dean’s not even looking at him, though, and Sam’s skeptical of the girl’s ability to write and gaze longingly into his brother’s eyes at the same time.

“That’s everything,” Sam supplies, and her face flushes heavy when she catches sight of the expectant look on Sam’s face.

Dean’s mouth is wide.

-

Dean holds his hand even when his fist is sweaty.

When Sam’s angry at Dean he balls five fingers tight and makes his big brother hold him by the punch, tug him in every direction he’s supposed to go.

Dean’s just turned ten and Sammy’s still five and Dad’s not here to slow-blink at Dean with whiskey breath.

It’s supposed to be fun; Dean’s supposed to dress up so they can play Cowboys and Indians and Dean says he can be the Indian this time.

He doesn’t need a bath til later.

Dean’s not looking at him though, and Sammy’s ears hurt a little from earlier.

Dad yells so loud and Sammy can’t wait until he’s tall and strong and can scream back, make his Daddy’s ears bleed color and ache.

Sammy’s pissed.

“You promised!” Sam yells, but Dean won’t let go of his fist even though they’re in the tiny kitchen and Dean can’t make him mac n’ cheese if he only has the one hand.

“You’re jus’ mad cause you wanna be Indian this time,” Sammy says; Dean won’t look at him.

“You promised!” Sam screams again; he can’t fight with Dean like this, when Dean’s locked away.

“Stop it,” Sam says, and he pulls his fist free of Dean’s big-boy grip so roughly that he loses his balance and topples backwards, cracks his back against the small table kitty-cornered in the room.

Dean’s eyes get big and he drops the Kraft box he’s holding but Sam scrambles away; he’s not a baby.

“Don’ touch me,” Sam hiccups, and Dean’s face twists-awful. Dean stays close, like Sam’s that little black bird they found with the bad wing last week. 

It couldn’t fly; it limped heavy and it wouldn’t let Dean touch it, even though Sammy chased after it crying for an hour.

“You never--” Sam says, but he’s confused and it’s so loud in here and he just wants to  _ play.  _ They’re leaving tomorrow and it’s hot in Texas and cowboys live here anyway.

This is the best place to be an Indian, and Dad hates Texas.

_ Fucking entitled rat bastards _

They won’t come here again and Dean’ll take it back; he’ll never get to play Indian and catch Dean.

“You never do it right,” Sam screams; his face is so hot he can’t breathe and Dean settles on his ass, pulls his legs up under his chin.

Dean’s mouth opens strange; Sam knows he’s trying, but then Dean pushes his head down into his kneecaps and scoots closer to where Sam’s acting like he’s three.

Daddy just yelled at Dean and now Sam’s yelling and that’s not fair.

Sam understands that everything is not fair, but he should always, always try to be. His eyes are still glass-wet but he crawls closer to Dean on hands and knees.

“I c’n be the cowboy this time,” Sam says, even though the words taste too sweet in his mouth and he wants to wear the feathers.

Dean stole them in Missouri and they’re rainbow; one is violet and that’s the one Sam wants the most. Dean could keep the rest.

Sam pushes saline-sticky fingers up under Dean’s legs until he finds Dean’s hand. His fingers are cold and Sam’s are warm by the flame of his anger.

The bird died two days later, wing blackened and twisted high on its back.

-

Most days are bad.

Sam knows it’s because he’s been gone so long; he remembers how to do everything but Dean doesn’t want it of him anymore.

Dean doesn’t trust him, and that twists his chest up more than anything else could.

Dean’s thigh’s been moving all day and Sam resists the age-old urge to slap a palm down on it. Some days Dean doesn’t even care, but today is not one of those days. 

People have been dying in Lake Montiac for the last thirty years and that much unresolved death settles stone-heavy inside.

If this were one of Dean’s better days; he’d be able to tap into his reserves and Sam could fade sympathetically into the background. 

As it is, they’re standing in the Barr living room right now and Dean is coiled so tight next to Sam that Sam cups his elbow on instinct.

Dean relaxes, inch by inch and Sam holds his breath and grips tighter. Sam rocks back in his dress shoes and considers how he can get Dean alone to explain.

There’s no explanation that Dean’s going to accept, and Sam doesn’t blame him.

Dean’s worse than he’s ever been, and Sam knows, to some extent, that it’s because John never understood Dean enough to be an asset.

He tried, especially when it became obvious that it wasn’t a short-term thing, but it’s easier to tackle the beast you know.

Sam left a blind man.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” Andrea says, and Sam can read the flatline in her voice. Sam flinches to hear it.

It sounds like home.

“I just need to talk to him,” Dean says, and Sam unconsciously presses closer to his brother, combined expanse of their bodies hiding Sam’s grounding touch.

Dean leans into him inadvertently and Sam counts his breaths. 

Andrea looks conflicted; Sam can see her despair warring with Dean’s earnest voice. Sam wants to tangle his hand in the soft hair lining the nape of Dean’s neck, but he doesn’t think Andrea will appreciate 200+ pounds of Sam knocked out on her floor.

Sam can feel Dean’s back stiffen, and Sam watches Dean haul in a deep breath.

This is gonna drain him out.

“Just a few minutes,” Dean asks, and Sam needs to tap in before Dean goes vacant; his throat will close up on him and he’ll turn to look up at Sam, angry-defense.

“He won’t say anything,” she says stiffly, and Dean shudders so violently that Sam’s amazed she doesn’t notice. “What good’s it gonna do?”

“Andrea,” Sam tries, “we think more people might get hurt. We think something’s out there.” Dean’s vibrating under his touch and Sam wishes he had more time to pander to Andrea’s insecurities, but he can’t.

Andrea crosses her arms and Sam’s about to strong-arm his way to Lucas’ room, drag Dean along ahead of him.

This is crossing the border into ridiculous.

“If that’s what you really believe,” Sam says pointedly, “then we’ll go. But if you believe there’s even a possibility that something else could be going on here--” Sam says, and then Dean’s pulling away, moves a step closer to Andrea.

“Then please let me talk to your son,” Dean says firmly, and Sam pulls his hands behind his back to staunch their damned trembling.

He’s twenty-two years old; he should be long used to this. 

Andrea sighs, and her hands fall flat and Sam knows they won. Dean won.

Lucas is coloring in his room, army men scattered around like detritus. Dean takes the lead, crouching down next to the boy. 

Dean’s shoulders are hunched in tight and Sam knows what a strain it is, forcing words out from a mouth that doesn’t know how to hold them.

Andrea looks at the pair of them for a second and then she retreats, too quickly for it to be natural. Sam wants to touch her hands, mutter that he gets it; he does, but Sam’s too engrossed in this interaction.

Dean reaches into his coat pocket for the drawing that Lucas gave him earlier, and he smooths it out before the little boy. 

Lucas’ fingers tremble a little as he looks at the picture and Sam can see a fine shiver run through his older brother.

“You’re scared,” Dean says and Lucas continues to color, head bowed. “S’okay, I understand. See, when I was your age, I saw something real bad happen to my mom, and I was scared too.”

Dean’s knees creak as he settles himself down more comfortably and Sam aborts the desire to cross closer to his brother.

“I didn’t--I didn’t feel like talking, just like you,” Dean whispers, so low that Sam knows Dean doesn’t mean for him to hear it.

“S’hard,” Dean continues, and Lucas is clutching his crayon so tightly Sam’s afraid it’ll splinter in small hands.

“I can’t--I can’t do it right, still,” Dean admits, and Lucas flips his face up to meet Dean’s, wide-eyes and a bitten lip.

“I do my best to be brave,” Dean says warmly, “and maybe, your dad wants you to be brave too.” 

Sam can see Dean lock up and Dean cranes his neck back, eyes squinted in Sam’s direction. Sam’s there in a one and a half long steps and he rests a hand carefully against Dean’s shoulder.

Lucas hands Dean a picture of a white church and Sam tips his head in the kid’s direction, runs one large hand over top of his hair.

“Hey,” Sam whispers, still too loud, no matter the precaution. 

“Thanks, Lucas.”

-

Dean fights a lot.

Sam knows because he waits after school for Dean to swing by so they can walk back to Roundtree together.

Roundtree is a trailer park comprised mostly of the elderly, and, contrary to popular belief, Sam and Dean go virtually unnoticed.

They can crouch low and hide, and Sam doesn’t know how to trip; Dad’s training it out of him.

Dad’s paid the rent up to next month; John’s good at high-stakes poker and Sam’s better at it than Dean.

Dean’s eyes crinkle in a tell and he can’t seem to knock himself free of the impulse.

Dean’s fourteen and he comes up to Millboro Elementary with a split lip, knuckles busted open crimson and Sam runs over to him before Dean can get too close and get in trouble again.

Sam tucks his hair behind both ears and glares up at his brother.

Dean won’t meet his eyes; he’s scanning the perimeter.

“Dad’s gonna kill you,” Sammy says pointedly, and Dean doesn’t look at him. Sam sighs in irritation and pinches the underside of Dean’s wrist.

Dean automatically flexes his hand and Sam hums as he examines it. Sam presses down in between the joints and Dean’s hand jumps automatically.

“Kay, you can still feel everything,” Sam murmurs. Dean swings himself onto Sam’s other side all while Sam keeps Dean’s injured fist within his grasp.

Dean knocks into him with one hip, urging him to move, and Sam complies, pulls Dean’s digits out one by one and checks for any breaks through the skin.

Dean makes an impatient noise and Sam carefully navigates the curb, hops up when he sees Dean’s Converse disappear.

“You fight more than when you hunt with Dad,” Sam says carefully, and looks up at his brother.

His brother’s lip is swollen thick and Sam’s reaching up to thumb the underside of the wound before he can think better of it.

Dean flinches but allows it and Sam’s hand drops listlessly back to his side. Dean’s hair is matted down with soil on one side and Sam knows that it got rough.

Dean’s less injured than he would be had he lost, but Sam has never seen Dean lose. The state of his right hand attests to that.

“What’s the story,” Sam asks, and Dean finally turns his head down to catch Sam’s eyes. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam grouses, “last time Dad came to me and I didn’t know what we were goin’ with,” Sam explains.

Dean’s bruised mouth splits open a little and then he winces, lips downturned. 

“Don’t hurt yourself there, Rambo,” Sam says dryly, and Dean cuffs him soundly against the back of the head.

“C’mon” Sam says, serious now, and he adjusts his backpack so that it sits higher on his back, red Jansport tangled around his spine.

Dean tugs his hand free (Sam’s fingers laced over top) and reaches for Sam’s backpack to throw it above his own.

Dean’s is heavier; he’s in Chem this year and Sam likes to study it alongside him. Dean’s better with balancing chemical equations than he is, but Dean laughs and says it’s because Sam’s ten, kid, this is junior math.

Sam’s photocopied the pages though; Dean’ll explain it again if he’s patient enough.

“Stop touching me,” Sam gripes and Dean’s hand falters for a second before he renews his struggle.

Sam sighs so hard that it rocks his body a little and Dean takes the opportunity to pluck his bookbag off of one shoulder.

“You’re a fucker,” Sam says and Dean falls still, one hand clasped around the handle, red dangling from his fingers.

Dean’s mouth is in a line far too tight to be comfortable and Sam runs his hand through his hair, loose feathers trickling back across his forehead.

“Just tell me what happened, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean’s forehead twists up.

Dean releases his grip on the Jansport slowly, allows it to drop back into place on Sam’s back. Sam grabs Dean’s wrist, the injured one, and Dean reaches up to tug at a handful of his hair.

Sam curses under his breath.

“Hey, hey,” Sam says, “m’sorry.” 

“I just--I just don’t want you to fight anymore,” Sam says, and Dean snorts in the afternoon silence.

The sun is pressing but not oppressive and Sam’s jeans are sticking to sweat-slick thighs. Sam jiggles his left leg impatiently and looks around the area; Dean’s thinking.

Roundtree is just up to the block to the left; they’re passing suburbia right now; two story plasticware houses.

They’re brick laid, hunter-green shingles and drainpipes that Dean could fix if they gave him half a chance.

The same Fischer-Price tricycle is in two lawns and Sam watches the false red wheel spin lazily in the heat.

Dean slings one arm around his neck suddenly and Sam groans; sun’s too sticky and Sam wants fourteen showers, but he allows himself to be pulled along.

Cement turns to gravel turns to grass as they take a sharp left and Roundtree looms before them, kind of homey in a cinnamon candy-lintball way.

Their trailer is lemon-pinesol and Sam hangs onto the key because Dean is organized but sometimes he’s scatterbrained, especially after school.

Sam runs through lists of what they’ll need in his head, checks off wallet, keys and Beretta every morning.

Dean hangs tight behind him, rigid body like The British are coming.

Sam shoves the metal-vinyl door open and listens for the belated ripple effect that means Dean’s shutting the door softly behind them.

Sam sets his Jansport down on the couch next to the door and takes three steps in the direction of the kitchen.

There’s ice in the freezer and Sam scrubs his left hand over his eye as he packs it into the stained dishrag they use for this purpose.

When Sam turns, Dean is hanging docile, legs sprawled invitingly on the one armchair in this place. Dean’s right hand taps out a stuttered beat on his thigh. 

It’s bass-heavy and Sam guesses it’s Black Sabbath; Dean hums them after a fight.

Sam presses the ice down slowly and shoves himself in between his brother’s legs. He nudges Dean’s chin up with one hand when his big brother’s eyes go unfocused on the crayola-splash of red across torn knuckles.

The armchair is brushed twill, pseudo-soft and off beige. Dean squirms in place and Sam presses down harder as Dean’s eyes blink four times and focus on his face.

“They forget,” Dean says abruptly, and Sam schools his face into nonchalance. 

“Retard can still beat their asses,” Dean says, and from the way his mouth zip-ties shut, Sam knows that’s all he’s getting.

-

Sam can hear a silent scream.

Maybe that’s inaccurate; he can feel it. The air short-circuits around him and he’s up, soundless.

Sam flings his feet over side of his own bed, clips his bad knee against the nightstand and rubs it deep until the twinge dulls into an ache.

He flicks Dean’s lamp on, casts his brother into shadow against pea-soup wallpaper and mismatched mustard sheets.

Dean’s got one hand into a fist and the other is hanging limp. His brother’s neck is corded but he’s motionless; this is how Dean dreams.

Limp hand twitches and flies up to Dean’s throat; it besets noise.

Sam catches it on reflex and Dean’s fingers curl fever-bound around his own hand.

Dean gasps once and it jostles his whole body. Sam peels Dean’s blankets back; Dean’s t-shirt is pressed slick to his skin and his right leg jounces.

Sam sighs-thick, pushes his lean body in alongside Dean’s even though Dean takes up most of the space with his silence.

Dean’s body stiffens at once and then deflates. Sam keeps ahold of the hand he’s got and nudges Dean so that his brother is curled on his side in a question.

Sam slings one arm around Dean’s middle and drags him back, motion stuttered because of how easy it is to move his older brother. 

His hands span Dean’s ribs and he counts, a dozen per side. Dean’s ass presses back against the blood-strain of his dick and Sam turns his head up to the water-logged ceiling on a blink.

Sam holds his breath for the sound, sometimes.

-

This is a Bad Day.

Dean hates when Sam sleeps with him, because he knows what it means.

Sam’s usually good about getting up and out before Dean wakes up, but sometimes he’s tired and Dean’s curled compact.

Sam’s chest still burns from the hand Dean used to shove him out and flat on his ass. 

Dean’s been stiff since, and he already fucking loathes planes, which makes this day pretty fun, by Sam’s count.

They’re Homeland Security and Sam’s barely conscious enough to flash his badge alongside Dean as they’re granted access to tour the plane wreckage.

Dean won’t look at him, head bowed stiff over something in his hand, and Sam’s heart dips with that old-familiar sway of irritation that he’d thought he’d long since buried.

“What is that,” Sam says, heavier than he expects, and he’s still shocked when Dean turns to him, right hand outstretched.

“EMF meter,” Dean says slowly, “reads electromagnetic frequencies,” he adds, and he tips his head back to meet Sam’s eyes.

Sam’s fist curls by his side of its own volition and he meets Dean’s gaze.

“Yeah, I know what an EMF is,” Sam spits, “but why does that one look like a busted-up Walkman?” 

Dean positively beams and Sam can’t help the backwards stumble he takes. The machine is whirring gently in Dean’s palm and it’s dark blue and white underneath the obvious enhancements. Sam can see the transparent window where a cassette would go and Dean’s mouth is soft and guileless.

“Cause that’s what I made it out of,” Dean explains, voice trip-quick. “It’s homemade.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam says; he flings his words with Winchester precision and Dean’s face corks shut and his fingertips bleed white against the device.

It sings to life as they maneuver around the remains; charred metal and twisted pipes. Dean’s head snaps up when the EMF fairly trembles in his hand and Sam steps closer on instinct.

There’s yellow dust covering the emergency door handle and Dean runs the EMF closer. It becomes so loud it’s almost numbing and Dean looks up at Sam in question.

“Only one way to find out,” Sam replies, and he scrapes the excess off into a Ziplock for testing.

Dean pockets the EMF and follows him out. 

-

“There ain’t a goddamn reason for it!” Dad hollers, and Sam’s in a runner's crouch as the shot glass splinters to death before his eyes.

“You’re a sight better sniper than me or Sammy,” John continues, and his voice is still blaring but it’s more controlled.

Sam thinks that this always ends up worse.

“FUCK!”

Sam trembles this time and then he comes around the corner, hands shoved low in sweatpants pockets.

John’s vision blurs and then focuses on his youngest and by that point Sam’s standing next to Dean.

Dean’s head is tucked to his collarbone and his hands are clasped in front of him. Sam is as tall as Dean now, sixteen years old and spinning headfirst into dangerous territory.

“Dad,.” Sam says, and John opens his mouth and then closes it.

“Sammy,” he says wearily, “go back t’bed, this is between me an’ your brother.”

When Sam laughs it’s sick-bitter and he’s not shocked when Dean’s head comes up and he slants a look at Sam. Dean’s attuned to Sam-sounds and Dad’s too drunk to hear the fight coming.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, and John Winchester chokes on his own spit and booze.

“Goddammit, Dean, please,” John says and Dean’s eyes are bottle-gaped and confused; he opens his mouth and Sam hears the croak and then Sam knocks Dean two steps behind him.

He’s packing on muscles as fast as Dean and Dad can train them into him, and John and Dean are back from hunting a shifter; they’re down for the count.

“S’not target practice, Dad,” Sam says thickly, “he’s not gonna jump just cause you said it real firm,” Sam says and Dean’s entire hand curls into the back of Sam’s sleep shirt.

Sam bends his knees quick for the brace and Dean grunts in surprise when his jerk backwards falls flat and Sam doesn’t budge.

“Watch your mouth, boy,” John says, shoving the wooden dining chair further in Sam’s direction.

“Yessir,” Sam says, “if you watch yours then I’ll think about it for  _ sure, _ ” Sam says, and John’s upright so fast that the wood clatters to the floor and Dean skirts out from behind him.

“Stay the fuck  _ back! _ ” Sam hollers, surprising even himself, and father and brother freeze in their tracks.

“You think,” Sam says, and now he’s breathing heavy. “You think he’d ever disobey you if he could help it?” 

John’s spoiling for a fight and Sam’s on equal footing now, given his father’s inebriated state.

“You think he’s not fucking tryin’?” Sam asks, stepping closer even as Dean makes a simultaneous movement alongside him.

“Don’t fucking talk at him, listen!” Sam yells and he’s so blazing he’s the sun and they’re gonna learn a thing or two tonight.

“He’s got shit to say, but you’re talking too damn much to hear and all you care about is mom and Dean killing two for every one’a you and he’s fucking  _ screaming,  _ you hear it?” Sam says, and he’s not yelling as loud as he was.

There’s a low-grade moan coming from behind him but Sam can’t grab his brother the way he wants to, not when John’s blinking like he’s trying to balance himself.

“Christ,” John whistles. “M’not-- I can’t understand it like you, Sam,” John says, and when he opens his palms there are shards of glass winking across the room.

“I don’t--I don’t pressure him,” John says in confusion and Sam doesn’t know if this made anything better.

“RIGHT HERE,” Dean suddenly yells, and his hands are soldered to his ears and hair but the whites of his eyes are tangled across any color they might’ve held.

“I’m not fuckin’ deaf, I’m not fucking stupid, and the shifter looked like Sam and I just--I couldn't,” Dean says in a rush, pointing at Sam’s dumbstruck face.

“M’sorry I fucked that up,” Dean says, and Sam’s frightened because Dean still hasn’t moved his hands and Sam’s so scared he’ll never hear his brother’s voice again.

“You--” Dean says, pointing at Sam and Sam’s blood chills once and then coagulates. “What,” Sam says, and Dean’s eyes narrow.

“Not your goddamned show,” Dean spits, and Sam crosses over to him but Dean backs up until his spine hits the wall and he looks terrified. “Not yours,” Dean stutters and Sam’s gonna be sick.

“Son,” John says, and his voice is loud and strong and Sam wants to relax into it,  _ dad fix it,  _ but he knows John Winchester isn't built near big enough to handle Dean. 

Handle. 

_ Christ,  _ Sam thinks. 

“Don't talk to me,” Dean says, and Sam watches his eyes widen once and then flutter shut on a blink. 

Dean spins on his heel and the door clips his shoulder on his way out and Sam’s ears already throb too much to listen to his father gasp for air behind him. 

-

Burning flesh smells sweet, perfume of barbeque, and Sam wakes up sick with the scent in his nose.

Dean pats his hands all over Sam’s face, gun thick and clumsy. They tickle his cheeks and Dean’s thumb slip n’ slides over Sam’s tears.

Sam grunts and nudges his brother back, gently. He rubs the stain of his face against his pillow and Dean makes a funny sound in his throat and Sam’s breath comes out choppy because that means Dean’s trying.

It’s been a long time since Dean tried to shove forth past it, no reason to exacerbate the issue; Sam’s always thought.

Dean’s hands still wander, past Sam’s shoulders, down his pecs and into the riverbed of his abdomen. Dean’s fingers flutter uncertainly and Sam’s eyes have adjusted enough to search out his brother’s face.

Dean’s mouth hangs slightly agape, and his brother’s face is scrunched up tight, tear-flicker on rough cheeks.

Dean knows.

He must understand and Dean won’t know what to say to Sam. He can’t fix this, and frankly; Sam doesn’t want him to.

Dean’s hands settle hard and hot on his lower stomach and Dean’s blinking so hard that Sam takes a wide breath so he can chase the taste from his lungs.

Dean leaks a smallsoft sound when Sam reaches up, wraps one broad palm around the cotton-press of the back of Dean’s neck and drags him down the necessary inches to meet, skin on skin.

Dean’s hands shake so violently that Sam can feel the tremor in his lower half; his dick plumps up and twitches in excitement.

Sam gnaws down on the exposed flesh Dean provides and Dean’s hands splinter and slip. Sam catches him around the waist and huffs out an expected breath at Dean’s sudden weight against his chest.

Dean’s mouth opens on a distinct whine and Sam’s groan is loud in response, hips swiveling up of their own accord, churn into Dean’s pelvis.

Dean shudders once and Sam continues his assault; he pries Dean’s mouth loose and wet and dips his tongue inside; topography of big brother.

Dean’s hands flutter and settle on where Sam’s biceps are wrapped around Dean’s trim waist and Dean’s kissing back, all raw ache and Sam thinks it’s supposed to hurt exactly this much.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Dean whispers, and then, “Sammy, Sammy, please,” so hushed that Sam locks his own knees and draws back.

Dean’s plundered; his eyes are shining with Sam-concern and his mouth is ripe and Sam could dip long fingers down Dean’s boxers right now and pry his brother open and apart.

“You--” Dean says, and his eyes dart from Sam’s chest to Sam’s face to Sam’s grip and Sam’s heart makes a fatal thump.

He’s fucked himself up, this time.

“You need,” Dean continues, and he bites down  _ hard  _ on his lower lip and Sam knows Dean’s fastened up.

Sam pries his arms loose in a hurry and Dean scrambles back with mountain-lion agility and Sam hooks himself upright on elbows.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Sam starts, but Dean ducks his head low and Sam’s mouth winds shut because he’s been responding to Dean’s cues all his life.

Dean does  _ not want to discuss this _

and Sam nods jerkily, hands fisted between his sheets.

Dean stumbles over to his own bed, head dipped penance-shamed and Sam can’t touch. Dean faces away and Sam watches the tight coil of his brother’s body for a long time.

-

The good Doc asks Sam what he thinks about this brother; the one he’s road-tripping with, and Sam’s mouth does its best attempt to dislodge from his body and make a home on the floor.

Sam thinks about the twist of his brother’s spine and the quiet way Dean whined for him; Sam’s hands; his mouth, and he thinks he needs to see a different sort of professional about this.

Maybe the clergy.

-

Sam can run backwards faster than anyone else on the team; they can’t see how he doesn’t trip and fall; his gaze is locked on the spiral above him at all times.

They don’t know that Sam’s a seventeen year old war machine and he’s got eyes in the back of his head.

Dean’s always excelled as a tight-end, blocks Sammy like it’s his job, larger muscle mass and more compact frame. 

Sam’s  _ big  _ now, two inches on his older brother and his shoulders press out of every shirt they put him in. Sam likes to run; Dean laps with him out of necessity.

Dean’s built for hand-to-hand combat and Sam plays open season.

His hair is shorter than he likes it, bangs in his eyes and it makes him look younger while the man’s breadth of his body exposes his age better than numbers ever could.

They start him almost immediately, tryout a sham to what they can see instantly in the way that he knows his body.

It’s his greatest asset; his most secure weapon, and Sam understands that a person can be a conglomerate of a whole.

The field is louder than one would think, press of fans on either side. 

They’ve lived in Texas maybe three times in their whole life and Sam grunts at the idea that high school football is bread and butter here.

He fits in seamlessly, butterfly smiles for broad-chested girls and hulking man-boys in Calc.

Dean comes to every game, ostensibly to drag him directly home afterwards; as if Sam couldn’t get away and drink himself to abandon if he really wanted to.

Sam unerringly finds Dean in the stands, at the very front, hands laced together. 

They’re down by two touchdowns in the top half of the fourth and Sam’s head is buzzing within the confines of his helmet, mouth-guard slip-damp on his lips.

They’re expecting Matthis to pass deep, and Sam  _ wants it,  _ glances hard at his brother and finds Dean’s eyes locked in on his. 

Dean scratches the side of his neck and Sam snorts to himself, accidentally catches the eye of the cornerback.

Sam taps his hand against his helmet twice and Dean’s smile breaks wide. 

Dean pantomimes a pump fake and Sam wants to respond but Matthis is hollering and Sam’s a deep threat; they’ll never catch him once his hands close around the ball.

Sam’s thighs tremble with adrenaline and he feels like he’s woods-deep in the hunt, twist-tale of wizened trees in his peripheral. 

Dean’s not breathing.

The ball is hiked and Sam presses forward automatically, loud laugh gurgling in his mouth. He crosses the backfield past the line and he’s  _ gone,  _ feet light-tripped.

His cornerback curses loud and doubles back but Sam’s gloved hands are already open and connecting with Matthis’ handoff. Their quarterback spins out of Sam’s trajectory as he backtracks and races back toward the line.

The defense isn’t expecting any of this, not a trick play so early in the fourth and Sam thinks that’s their first mistake.

If Sam exerts himself; he thinks he can hear the distinct strain of Dean’s yells but Sam feels hands grasp at his hip and he spins backwards, spine turned toward the endzone.

It’s even louder than before; Sam’s running backwards for a full twelve seconds before he rights himself forward once more, and they still can’t touch him.

His calves drip-burn when he passes through the redzone and he knows the sound of his blood when they get the six.

His teammates are screaming louder than Sam’s air and Sam releases the ball in time to catch a headbutt from his friend.

Dean’s body is taut with shivering excitement, even if Sam can’t make out his face.

-

Sam’s sweat has congealed to his thighs and he’s vibrating so hard with the win that he can barely see straight.

It’s that burst of natural narcotic that has him spying Dean across the street, twenty easy steps from his Baby.

That’s Sam’s first cue. 

Dean never leaves her alone until he’s got to. Sam’s already taking off at a dead jog; he’s already told the team bye; he’ll try and catch up with them later.

He’s still wearing his game pants but he’s changed into a black v-neck that’s already damp with dirt and flesh and Dean’s fists are coiled by his sides.

The three guys he’s talking to aren’t anything special, but they are relatively big, and they’re hemming his brother in with a certainty that Sam won’t stand for.

The biggest one, Beer Neck, is in the middle and he leans close, tangles himself up into Dean’s personal space and Dean’s arm flies up just as Sam gets close, yells “HEY!”

Dean turns halfway to face him, not in surprise but confusion; he must’ve known Sam was running, but the other three are gobsmacked; Beer Neck’s hand does not waver.

“Put your fucking hand down,” Sam says, not even a bit winded, and he’s right up next to his brother, body atremble with violence.

“Ain’t you oughta be out celebrating?” Beer Neck slurs, “saw you flatten Dunn’s ass with that end-around,” he says, and Sam’s head is a hurricane, whipcord sounds and hail.

“Back the fuck off,” Sam repeats, and Dean angles his body so that he’s half in front of Sam’s bulk.

“We was just talking,” Beer Neck explains. “He don’t seem keen on answering, though,” Beer Neck says contemptuously, and Dean’s so rigid beside Sam that Sam’s gonna be fucking sick.

“Then take a goddamn hint,” Sam says, and Beer Neck is motionless for a second. “He ain’t answered me yet,” Beer says and Sam’s too lit, patience a relic.

“Well, if you really need one,” Sam grits out, and Dean makes a hoarse sound but Sam’s arm is already rearing back and his fist is connecting with a fleshy cheek at a speed that astounds even him.

Beer Neck goes down with a tumble, too drunk to be much of a threat, but his friends are already hunched and swinging and Sam’s so fucking livid--he wants every precious second of this.

Dean’s dipping under Sam’s wide arms to land a punch on the stocky blond, but Sam’s not here for that.

He bodies his older brother back and out of the way, breaks the blond’s nose with an uppercut that jolts down his arm.

The way the blond crumples to the earth is bone-jarring; Sam can see bits of bone embedded in the curl of his fist and the third is already backing away, Hennessy breath and terror. 

Dean’s spinning him around so violently that Sam’s arm swings back in practice and Dean braces himself instinctively.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dean bites out, and Sam’s buzzing, not a scratch on either of them.

“He was coming for you,” Sam breathes, shakes his fist loose; that’s gonna burn nice in the morning.

Dean grabs at Sam’s shoulder, five-dagger press into already sore flesh.

“You almost killed him,” Dean says, jabbing his hand at the rippled breath of Broken Nose. Sam’s eyes flit down to the cement guiltily but he’s still quivering.

It’s smoldering here; he can’t breathe and every vibration makes him looser, sets him up to take in oxygen like a good little Winchester.

He’s burning, 24/7.

“I could’ve handled it,” Dean says, and his voice has gone low, meat-raw.

Sam grips his brother by the nape of the neck, mirrors the grasp Dean has on his own shoulder.

“I never fucking said you  _ couldn’t _ handle anything.”

-

The gun he points at his brother is a part of his arm and he can only see the sway in Dean’s step, that sickly saccharine concern Dean affords him, like Sam needs it most.

First.

“That an order?” Sam asks, and Dean’s face crumples up.

“Think of it as a real friendly request,” Dean says, and Sam raises the gun; it’s heavy but slick and he knows exactly where to aim to cut Dean down at the knees.

“Cause I’m gettin’ real tired of taking your orders,” Sam says, and he’s so goddamned livid; they’re all Dad, all telling him what he needs and desires and all Sam does is keep everyone hooked up together.

All he does is crutch up his crippled brother and push words down his throat and out his eyes and it’s a thankless job.

He’s got no impact and he can see it in the narrow way Dean’s watching him; the press of his brother’s obscene mouth.

“I fucking knew the Doc did something to you,” Dean says; he doesn’t subscribe to caution, and Sam tilts his head to the side and blinks back the image of Dean’s wet lashes as he pumps his brother full of rock salt.

-

Sam’s head is leaden and thick when he comes to and he remembers everything.

Dean’s body swaying forward just as his right hook knocks Sam six feet and change to the ground, swallows him up in blissful black.

“You gonna kill your own brother?” Dean asked, his voice gravel and tight; Sam wishes he could’ve heard it better. Recall.

Sam shot his brother, once, twice, and Dean was loud.

-

“I said I didn’t wanna talk about it,” Dean says, and he’s smooth, drops the Ruger down on his bed and kicks his boots off with one hand against the wall for balance.

Sam thinks about Dad, about coordinates and shoddy communication and the hopeful way John looked at Dean when Dean used to lean low to whisper in Sam’s ear.

John’s strung-out face when Sam reached down to hear Dean’s mouth, later.

Raw-quiet Dean, the result of every hunt, each kill.

“Who said anything about talking?” Sam says, and he’s the smartest savant to ever grace this earth because the answer’s been clear to Dean for so long and he won’t tell Sam; he won’t ever acknowledge.

Dean snorts derisively and Sam catches Dean around the waist and takes advantage of the element of surprise.

“Okay,” Sam says simply and the second kiss isn’t much different from the first, except Dean fists his hands in Sam’s flannel and jerks him so close that they might as well be the Winchester conglomerate.

Dean undulates against him and Sam stutter-gasps because he thought this would be harder; Dean would knock him out again and Sam would have matching bruises.

Dean’s mouth is slack when he pulls back and his eyes are empty; they’re searching Sam’s for something.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Dean breathes, and Sam’s face is wet and he’s nodding stupid, bangs flipping into his eyes.

Sam takes one big hand and shoves it in between Dean’s belt and his body, wiggles his fingers down into the confined space and flutters at the crease of Dean’s ass.

“Always tryna,” Dean huffs, hips jerking against Sam’s wicked erection and back into Sam’s roaming hand, “tryna make yourself fit, huh, big boy?”

Sam grunts at the name and presses two fingers dry against Dean’s hole, wrinkled and soft around him.

“You’re welcome,” Sam says and then his index pushes into that tight heat and Dean’s moan is so loud and unfettered that Sam knows he’s crying and Dean can call him a bitch later.

“Fingers or dick, huh, Sammy?” Dean begs and Sam’s gonna come in his jeans, ten inch with mayo, Sam thinks wildly and Dean squirms so careful that Sam’s finger slips deeper.

Sam leans low and bites down hard on Dean’s neck, hot-flush of blood rising to the surface and Dean keens.

Sam drives his finger higher into the friction and Dean’s dick is hard and flaming and Sam wants to see it, suck it down so he can hear those cries again.

Dean’s mouth is shiny and then he tilts green up to Sam’s eyes and he’s coming, jerking in his jeans from Sam’s finger in his ass and Sam’s mark on his neck.

Sam’s ever the little brother and follows suit, not a hand on him, and he sags hard against Dean, finger still immersed.

Dean’s breath fans out across Sam’s sweat-limp hairline and the sound of Dean’s cellphone ringing jars both of them; Sam’s finger slips regrettably loose.

Dean smiles shyly and cants his flushed ass back against where Sam’s bare hand still rests and Sam thinks about Dean naked, wide and pleading, and he’s listening so loud it’s jarring.

Dean fumbles with the black box and he flips it open carelessly, body arched into Sam’s, so quiet that Sam doesn’t pay any mind to the tears sliding down his face and mingling with Dean’s hair.

His cheek fucking aches.

Dean’s head is pillowed on his collarbone and so Sam feels Dean stiffen, watches one hand fly up to his brother’s head and Sam closes his own mouth.

Dean doesn’t move and Sam’s hand winds its way into Dean’s hair as well.

“Dad?” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please leave any thoughts you have on this (i need all the help I can get)


End file.
